“Yes, sir; quite sure.”
“My dear fellow,” cried the major, wiping his eyes, “what is the matter?”
“I’ve—I’ve eaten a great many of them,” panted Rolph.
“Well, so we all have, and delicious they were. Why, hang it, man, they won’t poison you.”
“Don’t!” gasped Rolph, with a wild look in his eyes; and, clutching at the decanter, he poured a quantity of sherry into a tumbler and gulped it down.
“I say, Rob, are you ill?” said Sir John, kindly.
“Yes—no—I don’t know,” gasped the captain, gazing wildly from one to the other, in search of a fresh victim to the poison.
“Would you like to leave the table?” said Sir John. “Here, Morris, give Captain Rolph a liqueur of brandy.”
The butler hurriedly filled a wine glass, and the captain tossed it off as if it had been water, gazing dizzily round at the anxious faces at the table.
“Do you feel very bad, Robert?” said Glynne, rising and going round to his side to speak with great sympathy, as she softly laid her hand upon his broad shoulder.